Harry Harrison - The Technicolor Time Machine

“What do you know about Vinland?” Barney said to him.

“Nothing.”

“You mean you’ve never heard of it?”

“Sure I heard the skald make poems about it, and I talked to Leif Eriksson about his trip. I’ve never seen it, don’t know anything. One year I go to Iceland then go to Vinland, get very rich.”

“With what? Gold? Silver?”

“Wood,” Ottar said, with contempt for anyone who did not know such an obvious thing.

“For the Greenland settlements,” Jens Lyn explained. “They are always terribly short of wood of any kind, and in particular the hardwoods needed for shipbuilding. A load of hardwood delivered in Greenland would be worth a fortune.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Barney said, rising. “As soon as we finish shooting here we pay off Ottar and he sails to Vinland. We jump ahead in time and meet him. We film the departure, some ocean shots to do for the trip, then his arrival. They throw up a few shacks for a settlement, we pay some wampum to the local tribe to bum them down and the picture is finished.”

“Good idea. Plenty wood in Vinland,” Ottar said.

Jens Lyn started to protest, then shrugged. “Who am I to complain. If he is fool enough to do it, to enable you to make a picture—who am I to quibble. There is no known saga about a visit of someone named Ottar to Vinland, but since there seems to be no evidence as to the veracity of the other sagas I do not think I can complain.”

“Finish lunch now,” Ottar said.

Barney went out and found his secretary waiting for him with an armful of folders.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were eating,” she said.

“Why not? After what I just ate my digestion will never be the same again. Do you know what tribolites are?”

“Sure. Big squiggly things that we net on Old Catalina. It’s a lot of fun. You catch them at night with a flashlight then have a barbecue with beer. You should—”

“No I shouldn’t. What did you want to see me about?”

“It’s the time cards and the records, the weekends in particular. You see everyone here has been taking their weekend time, what would be their Saturdays and their Sundays, on Old Catalina—everyone except you, that is. You haven’t had a day off in the five weeks we’ve been here.”

“Don’t suffer for me, Betty darling. I’m not going to relax until this picture is in the can. What’s the problem?”

“Some of the skin divers would like to stay more than two days at a time. They have asked for four and said they will give up next weekend and work right through. My records are loused up as it is and this will wreck merry hell with them. What can I do?”

“Walk with me over to Ottar’s house, I can use the exercise. We’ll go along the beach.” Barney thought in silence for a minute as they came down to the shore. “Here’s what. Forget all the days of the week jazz and work it by number alone. Anyone who works five days in a row gets the following two off. If they want four days together then they have to work ten days straight, then have days eleven through fourteen off. Their day records will be in your books and on the time cards, since they’re punching in here and in Catalina both. Since two days or four days away means only a five-minute ride on the time platform, everyone is here all the time and working every day as far as I’m concerned—and that is all that counts. You do your record-keeping like that, and I’ll straighten it out with L.M. and the payroll department when we get back.”

They were almost to the headland that bounded the cove near Ottar’s house when the jeep bounced down the track to the beach behind them, its horn blaring steadily.

“Now what?” Barney asked. “Trouble, it has to be trouble. No one ever rushes up to give me good news.” He stood, looking unhappy, while they waited for the jeep to arrive. Dallas was driving, and he braked to a stop without kicking too many rocks around.

“Some kind of ship coming into the bay,” Dallas said. “They passed on the word and everyone is looking for you.”

“Well you found me. What is it, more Viking raiders like the last time?”

“All I know I told,” Dallas said, complacently chewing on a wooden matchstick.

“I was right about the trouble,” Barney said, climbing into the jeep. “You get back to the camp, Betty, in case there is any roughhouse.”

They saw the ship as soon as they came around the headland, a large vessel with a broad sail, coming in briskly before the following wind. The film company people were on the hill behind the house, staying together, but all of the locals had run down to the beach, where they were waving their arms and shouting.

“More murder,” Barney said. “And there’s my paparazzo cameraman on the spot ready to capture all the gore in technicolor. Get down there and let’s see if we can stop it this time.”

Gino had set his camera up on the beach where he could shoot both the welcoming committee and the arriving ship. That things were better than Barney had thought was obvious when they got closer, because all the northmen were laughing and waving, and their hands were empty of weapons. Ottar, who must have rushed there as soon as he had heard of the arrival, was knee-deep in the water, shouting loudly. As the ship neared the shore the big sail was lowered, but the vessel had enough way to beach itself, scraping up the gravel and shuddering to a halt. A tall man with an immense red beard, who had been at the steering oar, ran forward and leaped into the surf near Ottar. They shouted greetings and embraced each other strongly.

“Zoom in on the bear-hugging,” Barney called out to Gino. “And I won’t have to get a release or pay a cent to any of them,” he muttered happily to himself as he watched the busy scene.

The film people were drifting down to the shore now that it was obvious there would be no violence. Kegs of ale were being rolled out by the housecarls. Barney walked over and joined Jens Lyn, who was watching Ottar and the newcomer smite each other on the biceps, with shouts of glee.

“What’s it all about?” Barney asked.

“They are old friends and they are telling one another how glad they are to meet again.”

“That’s obvious enough. Who’s Redbeard?”

“Ottar called him Thorhall, so it may be Thorhall Gamlisson from Iceland. He and Ottar used to go viking together and Ottar always talked about him in a very friendly manner.”

“What’s all the shouting about now?”

“Thorhall is saying how glad he is that Ottar wanted to buy his ship because he, Thorhall, is looking forward to going back to Norway and he can use Ottar’s longship for that. He’s asking now for the other half of the money.”

Ottar spat out a single, loud, sharp-edged word.

“I know that one,” Barney said. “We’ve been here long enough to pick up at least that much of the language.”

The shouting was louder and was beginning to get a nasty tone to it. “Ottar is suggesting that Thorhall has evil spirits— illar vættir [13] Evil spirits. —in his head because he never bought any ship. Thorhall says that Ottar was singing in a different manner three months ago when he came and accepted hospitality and bought the ship. Ottar is sure now that Thorhall is possessed because he hasn’t been off this island for over a year, and he suggests that a hole be made in Thorhall’s head to let some of the bad spirits out. Thorhall now suggests that as soon as he gets his ax he’ll show which head to open…”

Something clicked in Barney’s mind and he roused himself from the spectator attitude that had possessed him while he watched the two heavyweights square off and prepare for a murderous slugging match.